


A Strange Middle Ground

by sebviathan



Series: if it's all right, then you're all wrong [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, s03e11 Lassie Did a Bad Bad Thing, the aftermath we fucking deserved at the end of that episode tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 02:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Shawn swears he is perfectly fine after the ordeal with Drimmer is over. He is not scared, and he doesnotneed anyone with him tonight.But Lassiter's place is still a crime scene, and what? Is he some kind ofjerkwho's gonna make his friend sleep on the couch in his office?





	A Strange Middle Ground

After hearing all that happened with Drimmer at Lassiter's apartment, Gus offers to let Shawn sleep over at his place. Or vice versa. Whatever makes him feel safe.

And Shawn appreciates it—he really does—but if only for his own stupid dignity, he declines the offer and insists that he's fine and that _all_ he wants to do is to give his statements, go home, and pass the _fuck_ out.

"You sure? You _did_ almost get shot, Shawn."

"And? That's a monthly if not _weekly_ occurrence at this point, Gus. Besides, any possible danger to me certainly wouldn't be stopped by _you_ being there."

"Hm. If you say so." His friend is clearly offended, but they both know Shawn is right.

A bit later, once everyone's made it to the station, Henry outright _tells_ Shawn that he's going to stay at the house tonight—which is all the _more_ reason to aggressively insist that he is perfectly fine! He does not feel unsafe and more importantly _nothing is going to happen to him!_

Drimmer has literally just been taken in, with a shot to the shoulder. _And_ the SBPD already has more than enough evidence of his affiliation with the Cinco Reyes. Even if Drimmer has accomplices elsewhere in the department, no one would benefit from hurting or killing Shawn.

Yeah, it was scary. Yeah, he experienced a very real moment (or several) of knowing how likely it was that he was about to die. Doesn't mean he can't put on his Big Boy Coping Pants and handle himself.

Ultimately he manages to convince Gus and his dad to leave once their own, very short statements are done, instead of waiting for him to finish relaying all the more convoluted stuff with Lassiter. It's at least another hour before the two of them are given the good-to-go from the Chief and IA, and by that time Shawn is so _tired_ from not just this evening but the pain medication he took for getting skull-whacked with the butt of a gun... that he almost can't bring himself to crack a joke on the way out.

The _almost_ being that it's not entirely a joke.

"Hey, Chief—you think, as compensation... you know, for this ordeal... I could have this?" He lifts up the colorful glass-blown fish from her desk, and smiles as innocently as possible.

"Like I said before, you'll be given a bonus on your next check, Mr. Spencer," she tells him, looking just slightly amused as she reaches forward and gently takes it out of his hands. He makes a small noise of protest, but doesn't try to stop her.

 _Okay,_ he mouths, cheeking his genuine disappointment and turning to finally go. Lassiter seems to take that as his cue to leave, too, because he doesn't move until then.

"What's your fascination with that fish thing, Spencer?" he asks, halfway in between annoyed and genuinely curious.

"What's your fascination with me having a fascination with that fish thing?" Shawn shoots back impulsively, miraculously _not_ fumbling from the alliteration, for which he feels deeply proud.

Carlton responds with the kind of mocking sound that a five-year-old would make—because _Spencer started it!_ and because it's really the only thing Spencer has given him _room_ to say.

Of course, exhausted as he is, Shawn snickers when he hears it. He then shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps them there while he walks with Lassiter to the station's exit. They remain in silence until he's right about to dart down the steps out front, and the other man grabs him by the shoulder.

"Hey, uh... my place is still a crime scene," Carlton is only just now able to bring himself to say. ( _Mentioning it earlier would have been awkward,_ he rationalizes.) "Probably still will be through the night. And, you know, my stuff is still—"

"Yeah, you can stay at my place tonight," Shawn says easily—unlike earlier, when Gus was there to potentially hound him about it if he expressed anything but disgust at the idea. It's the _least_ he can do, really.

Except when he tries to start down the stairs again, Lassiter remains where he is and frowns.

"Oh, I—I was going to say that my overnight bags are still at the Psych office... so I might as well stay there."

"Lassie, don't worry, I'm not gonna make you sleep on my office couch." _Especially not after you saved my life like a real action hero earlier,_ he might add if he wasn't sure it was obvious. Then he swings his arm up to grab the other man's shoulder—to make things even—and finally head down the stairs. "I got my dad's truck for the night. We can pick up your bags on the way to my apartment."

 

*

 

After a person has gone a certain amount of time without sleep, their impaired cognitive function can render them legally drunk.

While Carlton doesn't think that Spencer is truly at or anywhere near that point, and while Spencer says he probably wouldn't even fall asleep on the ride home if he tried, they both agree that the former should be the one driving.

"Not a big fan of driving anything that uses a steering wheel, anyway," Shawn says with a yawn as he pulls the seatbelt over his chest.

"You're a bigger fan of letting other people do the driving for you, I bet," Carlton mutters. He promptly turns the key in the ignition, then looks to the passenger's seat.

Now leaning back and with his arms folded tightly over his chest, Shawn's grumpy exhaustion briefly turns into a sleepy grin. "Got it in one."

Carlton staves off the rush of warmth in his face and chest with a jerk on the gear shift, and sudden pressure on the gas pedal.

 

*

 

Henry Spencer's truck radio is set to a country station, as they both find out when Shawn turns it on. He doesn't hesitate in the _least_ to start twisting the knob until it hits an alternative station playing what they both immediately recognize as The Cure.

Carlton doesn't really know why Spencer bothers, seeing as the Psych office is only a couple songs away, but he can't say he minds.

He likes this song.

Spencer doesn't talk for the entire seven minutes that he drives, which must be a new record. But Carlton supposes it might not count because he's nearly unconscious. He only opens his mouth after Carlton has stopped at the office, grabbed his bags, come back to the truck, and shook him into full consciousness—to tell him his home address.

It takes only another ten minutes to get there, but—

"Spencer, this is a dry cleaners."

"You're a dry cleaners."

"You're an idiot, and you're barely awake. Give me your address again."

"Don't need to, this is my place," Shawn tells him, sounding deceptively casual. "Come on."

A bit too swiftly for someone who's clearly so tired, he unbuckles, unlocks the door, and hops out of the truck. Carlton merely frowns for several seconds, feeling positive that this is either a weird joke or a result of Spencer not quite being in his right mind, but then he spots the other man putting his keys in the door.

Resigned but still very confused, he grabs his overnight bags and follows. Then, once Spencer turns on the light and he catches a glimpse of the inside, it's clear that it has indeed been refurbished into a living space.

"...You turned a dry cleaners into an apartment?"

"Just recently, actually. It was between this and the attic above a butchery," he lies, though not entirely sure _why_. Possibly to calm the hops his stomach is making over Lassiter being in his home? _Nah._ "Gotta admit, it was this clothes-spinning thing that broke the tie."

He points to the "thing" in question, at which Carlton understands and says, deadpan,

"You mean _rotating rack_?"

"I've heard it both ways."

They both think he probably should have seen that coming.

Shawn proceeds to plop himself down on what Carlton can't be sure whether is meant to be a couch for children, or a chair for a very fat adult. He doesn't ask. But as he looks for a place to set down his overnight bags, the former props his foot up on the small table in front of his chair-couch to untie his shoe, and Carlton is vividly reminded of a few hours earlier—

For a moment, instead of this tiny, dimly-lit living room, he's walking into his own. And he's looking from Spencer to Drimmer, who's got a gun, and he's unarmed, and as easily as he hides it he is _scared_ _—_

Shit, he thought he'd be able to avoid that at least a bit longer.

Carlton shakes it off, hopes that Spencer didn't notice him tense up or anything, and decides to simply drop his bags and look around the place. It's really _nothing_ like he expected—he's always sort of thought Spencer would live in a total disorganized sty. Candy wrappers and chip bags strewn everywhere sort of deal. But... save for the slight cramped feel, it's actually kind of nice.

"I know, I can't believe you're already getting to see my apartment, either," Shawn says, leaning back with a smirk, and relishing the way Lassiter suddenly looks embarrassed. If only for a second. "Bathroom's the first door from where we came in, and the bedroom's on the right. If you need a midnight snack there should be some hot pockets in the mini-fridge."

He expects (though doesn't necessarily hope) that that's the last he'll see of Lassiter all night, but the man simply stands there.

That is, Carlton doesn't quite understand, for a moment, why Spencer is telling him where his bedroom is. And then when he does,

"After what happened tonight, I think I should take the chair."

Shawn frowns. "What?"

"If someone comes in, they'll see me first," he explains. "And I'm the one with a gun?"

" _Oh_ _—_ ugh, you _too_ , Lassie?" Shawn snaps, which surprises Carlton. He grimaces, and then gives a mirthless laugh. Was he not expecting this? "I'm flattered, but _no one_ is going to break in, okay?"

"And you know that...," Carlton starts, folding his arms, "because of your 'psychic' powers, right?"

Shawn sighs, but doesn't plan to try and lie about that. No point while alone with him.

"Well, if you're so worried, Lassie, why didn't you demand to stay here and be my bodyguard in the first place?" Upon seeing the other man look resigned, he relaxes. "Kinda the point of inviting you to stay was so you'd have a _bed_ , Lass. You're my guest. I sleep in here just as often as I sleep in my bedroom, anyway, so... Unless you don't mind me spoonin' it up in there with you?"

Shawn is in no state of self-denial to believe that he wouldn't be fully okay if Lassiter actually told him he didn't mind—or even that he isn't _hoping_ , at least partway, to hear a "fine, come on."

Part of him thinks that might have been his hope all along. (It's better than believing that, in spite of what he's been telling everyone, he truly does just _not_ want to be alone tonight.)

Carlton, meanwhile, _cannot_ risk the possibility that Spencer is just teasing, whether he himself is still in any kind of denial or not.

He doesn't skip a beat in grabbing his bags and heading straight to the bedroom.

 

***

 

Without moving scenery, or outside noise other than a fan, it's a lot more difficult to keep his mind off all that happened a few hours ago.

Carlton has been on the force for over 17 years. He's seen more murders than he can count. He's been shot at several times, and grazed twice. He's narrowly escaped death and watched others do so _far_ more than that. Tonight wasn't even the first time that he personally saved the life of someone he truly cares about in a situation where it was _very_ plausible he'd fail.

...But it never really gets easier. The situations can never _really_ compare to each other. For all that he's experienced, he can't tell himself that the way he felt seeing Drimmer's finger inching towards the trigger while pointed at _Spencer_... is anything he's felt before.

He can say with full confidence, in fact, that if that gun had shot Spencer, Drimmer would be in the morgue right now. Carlton wouldn't have fucking _hesitated_ , regardless of how useful the man might have been alive.

He _would_ say it, but he keeps it in the recesses of his mind. It would be weird to talk aloud to himself while in Spencer's bed.

It's fucking weird that he's in _Spencer's bed_. And that Spencer isn't even in it with him.

Would he prefer that? Would he prefer finishing off this night with sex that he couldn't even be sure was anything more than a distraction or _scratching an itch_ for Spencer—or, possibly worse, awkwardly lying two feet from him yet unable to touch him? Would he even prefer to have to confront nearly three years' worth of feelings in order to forgo the uneasiness either way?

He thinks he'd just prefer to be sleeping out there on that chair. Couch? Whatever it is it's probably not comfortable, but it's not like he's getting his beauty sleep back here, either.

Because without Spencer in his sight, or at least further away from any entrance than he is, it's difficult to feel like he's _safe_. Even if Carlton knows rationally how unlikely it is that anyone would break in... because his body doesn't seem to _care_ what's rational! He forces himself to ignore the nausea and to stay in here, _tells_ himself that he would definitely hear if someone opened the front door...

He stares at the posters on Spencer's wall, but they can only serve as distraction for so long. He turns his face toward the pillow and hopes the lack of light on his eyes will help him sleep, but it just puts Drimmer back in front of his eyes. Images that never even happened—but _could have_ _—_ flash in front of his eyes.

At that, his heart seems to be beating in his throat.

Carlton cycles through those at least six times (at this point he can't tell, it could be more) before acting on an impulse—pushing himself out of the bed and rifling through Spencer's drawers for Nyquil or some other sleep medication, or even plain tylenol, _anything_ that will calm him the hell down for now.

There is, indeed, a bottle of ibuprofen in Spencer's dresser. In the same place that Spencer apparently keeps what's probably a vibrator—he doesn't look at it for long enough to know, but he also can't bring himself to care.

He downs three of them, reluctantly dry, and puts the bottle back without looking. And he _aggressively_ wraps his arms around a pillow when he hits the mattress again.

After some time (which he doesn't quite gauge), Carlton's heart actually does seem to start beating normally, and his muscles loosen, and his thoughts soften into a proper pre-sleep mush, void of anxiety or fear or otherwise painful, conflicted feelings. He squeezes Spencer's pillow and inhales the distinct scent it gives off, and he _finally_ falls into unconsciousness.

Though only for just a moment, it seems, before the sound of a gunshot jolts him awake.

Carlton's eyes fly open like shutters and his right hand flies to the gun on the bedside table and his body shoots upward, halfway out of bed—all before he realizes that it _wasn't real_. No, he _knows_ the difference—his ears would be ringing, and it would have sounded different coming from another room, and, and—

Knowing that doesn't stop his heart from racing, or the rest of his body from shaking.

The one thing he _can't_ shake, now, is the image of Drimmer's gun firing at Shawn's head.

 _It didn't happen,_ he reminds himself. _That piece of shit_ tried _, but now he's going to rot in prison. Thanks to_ both _of us._

Spencer did contribute to disarming him, and Carlton thinks he should make a point to remember that. While technically a civilian, he proved to be capable and certainly wasn't _helpless_ back there. Perhaps he didn't come so close to death after all.

 _Perhaps,_ but the mindfulness doesn't seem to help.

And in spite of the ibuprofen—in spite of the fact that he _does_ feel exhausted in every sense of the word, Carlton feels positive he won't be getting to sleep anytime soon. So instead of lying back down for another attempt, he scrambles for his phone to check the time.

It's only been a little over two hours since they got here. He doesn't know whether he'd prefer that it be closer to morning or not.

...He didn't think, earlier, that he was going to take up Spencer's offer on a midnight snack from his fridge, but now it's the only thing he can think to do. In fact he isn't even hungry, but now that the thought's in his head... it only feels natural to let his feet take him out of the bed, to the mini-fridge at the edge of the room, and then to the door with a pepperoni pizza hot pocket.

Once at the door, he can hear muffled TV noises coming through. _Huh._

 

_*_

 

"Couldn't sleep?"

Unstartled and not quite surprised, either, Shawn shifts his gaze from the TV to his left, where Lassiter is leaning against the threshold by one outstretched hand, and letting a hot pocket dangle in the other. He looks a lot lankier when he's only wearing a t-shirt and boxer-briefs.

"...You either, huh?" Shawn says with a small nod, feeling just a bit warmer than a moment ago.

For a moment they share a knowing look, and then Carlton averts his gaze downward—then to his hand, which reminds him,

"You, ah...?" He lifts the hot pocket up in his hand and gestures vaguely with it. "Got a microwave?"

Shawn purses his lips into a brief, lopsided smile, and points his thumb to the right. "In the kitchen."

 _Kay,_ Carlton mouths, then tightens his lips and walks as fast as he can without looking like he's actually running away, into Spencer's small kitchen... area. It doesn't _really_ seem like a space for cooking now that he's in here—though there is another mini-fridge, a sink, some cupboards, a hotplate, a toaster, a blender, and... a microwave.

Something in the back of his brain reminds him, as he searches for a plate and avoids looking in Spencer's direction, that he's not hungry. He doesn't even like hot pockets that much.

Still, he folds the little cardboard wrap and punches in the numbers like his hands are on autopilot. And he leans against the counter, watching it rotate and not caring about radiation poisoning, unable to focus on much else.

Until Spencer's voice calls, across the room, "Hey Lassie, mind grabbing me a poptart while you're in there?"

"You want it toasted?" he finds himself asking as he opens a cupboard to find them—and which only sounds painfully domestic _after_ the fact. He doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Of course I want it toasted—what do I look like?"

"I could name a few things," Carlton says, _just_ loud enough for Spencer to hear. They both smirk to themselves.

He winds up eating about half of his hot pocket (and letting it burn his mouth) while he waits for Spencer's poptarts to toast. And when they do pop up, as odd as it feels, he has a paper plate ready and brings them to Spencer's seat.

The odder part is that the other man proceeds to scoot to the edge, clearly making room for _him_ to sit. Just _barely_ enough room.

Well... where else does he have? The floor? Back to the bedroom, by himself?

Shawn actually half-expected him to choose the floor, or to at least hesitate longer before accepting the seat directly next to him on this absurdly small couch. Or large chair. Even he isn't sure—it was here when this building was still a dry cleaners.

They're sitting thigh-to-thigh, now, snug between the arms of the chair-couch, both with nothing covering their legs past the upper thighs. And even with that... neither of them mind, outwardly or privately.

Across from them is Shawn's old box TV playing an early season episode of Magnum P.I.—which Carlton can tell because Keoki the bartender, who was arrested in season 4, is onscreen. He also notices the red light of a DVD player, and can't help but be amused because _of_ course _he has all the goddamn episodes on DVD._

Except within the next minute he also notices—

"You don't have cable?"

"Gus and I joint-pay for cable for the Psych office," Shawn tells him, silently proud of Lassiter's deduction. "I spend more time there, anyway—and don't you dare judge me, Mr. Spends-Ninety-Nine-Percent-Of-His-Free-Time-At-The-Gun-Range. You should also try changing your last name because that is a _doozy_ and I would _not_ want to be the person who has to take it when they marry you."

To avoid giving any hint that he thought that was even the _slightest_ bit funny (which he did not!), Carlton tightens his lips, rolls his eyes, and makes a point of inhaling loudly as he looks back to the screen.

He also takes another bite of his hot pocket, not really tasting it as it goes down, but hardly able to care less.

Shawn, meanwhile, finishes off his first s'mores poptart and licks the crumbs off his fingers, but then looks down at the other for a few seconds and makes a face.

"Why did I ask for this? I'm not even hungry," he mutters, promptly setting the plate down on the table in front of them.

Carlton nearly chokes.

 

*

 

Frankly, as much as he might have tried to convince himself that he's fine, Shawn didn't expect to be getting proper sleep tonight. He often doesn't even get proper sleep on completely _normal_ nights.

He can't say that he expected to stay up watching Magnum P.I. with Lassie either, though. He _might_ have expected (or _hoped_ ) to wind up doing something else with Lassie when he initially invited him to spend the night, but...

This is a strange middle ground.

Their arms are folded over their chests, eyes half-lidded, brains foggy, faces and chests... warm. Unbeknownst to each other.

And they are still sitting— _leaned back_ _—_ shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, knee to knee. Occasionally hand-to-thigh, for a split second, when either of them forget where their own legs end, but it's not that awkward at all. Mainly, probably, because of how tired they both are. Also because they're actually into the show.

"Wait, was this the season with the Simon & Simon crossover, or Murder, She Wrote? Or am I thinking of another show entirely..."

"Nah, you're right—it's the one with Simon & Simon. That's actually the... _very_ next episode, I think."

"Eh. I never liked crossover episodes. Feel like it kinda ruins the whole... I dunno, it's just harder to take it seriously. Especially after a game-changing two-parter like _Did You See the Sunrise_!"

"Dude, that's the point of filler episodes. We're _supposed_ to have an emotional break after character death like that. It's just Magnum interacting with characters from another detective show, it's not _Police Squad_."

"You're Police Squad."

Shawn openly giggles, though he's not sure whether it was really _that_ funny or if he's just tired. Or if he's just really, _really_ fond of Lassiter for having said that.

Either way, he's definitely tired. Not grumpy-tired anymore, though, or simultaneously exhausted and wired like he often gets—but tired in a way that could actually lead to him _falling asleep_ , now. It's almost too tempting to just close his eyes right now and go for it, even, but they've already started _Did You See the Sunrise? Part 1_ and he's determined to get through it.

That, and Shawn is sure that he'd regret it if he didn't take his chance _now_ , while they're both on the verge of passing out and he can get away with saying it casually.

... _Now_ is still about ten minutes after he has that thought. He tells himself it's because he didn't want to interrupt an important scene—despite this being the fifth time he's watched it.

"Lassie," he says, soft as he can without whispering, but still feeling his heart skip a beat.

"Hm?"

"Thanks for saving my life."

Carlton can't help but glance over in surprise, but only for a moment before averting his gaze back to the TV. It seems to be what Spencer is doing, too.

There are plenty of ways he might be purposely dismissive and aloof about this if this was the middle of the day and he was fully awake. If he wasn't already in Spencer's apartment, and sitting on Spencer's chair, and squeezed tightly against Spencer's side.

Even if he had more inhibitions, it would just be _stupid_ at this point, wouldn't it?

"...Well, thanks for believing in me, Shawn."

It feels more like something slipping off the tongue than an active decision, but Carlton lets it happen.

And he lets himself sink further into the seat, then glance over once more and briefly meet Spencer's eyes. He lets his own eyes become heavier, knowing that he'll probably fall asleep within the hour... and that if and when he does, he'll stay right here instead of going back to the bedroom.

He feels better, here, knowing at any given moment that Spencer is completely fine.

Personally, Shawn still holds (if only in the privacy of his own mind) that he did _not_ invite Lassiter here because he was scared. He did not invite him here as protection, or even as an emotional safety blanket. He was simply being a _friend_.

But he can't deny that having Lassiter with him has proven to be in his best interest.

He won't even _try_ to deny that Lassiter's company is likely the only reason he'll get to sleep tonight. Or that the moment the man sat down, he felt a flood of relief.

And he's almost positive that this night won't be acknowledged in the future between them, let alone to anyone else. Hell, Shawn will be seriously surprised if Lassiter is still here when he wakes up—and he felt that way _before_ they were both in this chair. But... it's _now_ that matters, isn't it?

...And right now, he feels _immensely_ safe. He feels the most comfortable, in every sense, that he's felt all night.

They both do.

**Author's Note:**

> The song that came on in the truck can be any song by The Cure that you want, but personally I imagined it as Just Like Heaven. And if you want to know exactly what it would have sounded and LOOKED like on Henry's shitty truck radio while Lassiter was driving, [I spent like 2 days on artwork and a video for it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gq6F3GxUObg&lc=z13mjxnzyrazipp4p04cc3vryuivxvpqjb0)
> 
> Shawn's love for Magnum P.I., and especially the 2-parter _Did You See the Sunrise?_ is canonical. I haven't actually seen any of Magnum P.I., but now I kinda want to?
> 
> And _Police Squad!_ is a monty python-esque detective comedy show that unfortunately ran for only 6 episodes back in the 80s. All the episodes are on youtube, it's the fucking funniest thing I've EVER seen and I am BEGGING you to watch it.


End file.
